


Sticky Black Strings and Oozing Red Ghosts

by CalicoYorki



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Gen, Introspection, Mutilation, Recreational Drug Use, Reflection, or at least references to that last one
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-16
Updated: 2014-04-16
Packaged: 2018-01-19 14:15:23
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,679
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1472803
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CalicoYorki/pseuds/CalicoYorki
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The life and times of Kurloz Makara, retold during reflection whilst preparing to get wicked stoned.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sticky Black Strings and Oozing Red Ghosts

My name is Kurloz Makara, and my life has seen its share of ups and downs. Ups include meeting the matesprit of my life, Meulin Leijon; the lowest down was the night my fucking ninny-screams of fear and uncontrolled chucklevoodoos cost Meulin her hearing. We are both still good friends, and even if she admits to not fully understanding or even condoning my choices as far as faith are concerned, she has made it clear to me that she will never surrender her concern and adoration for me. Her forgiveness is something I cherish, as much as I feel it is not something I deserve. We learned how to sign together, and the rapid fire gestures let us share conversations secret from anyone else. Of course, I can very easily convey my thoughts by way of chucklevoodoos, and this is something I'm wont to do. That doesn't mean I don't seek Meulin's permission first. For me to do such things as removing disgusting images or painful sensations, it demands a certain amount of trust, lest it verge into a gross betrayal of privacy. Perhaps Beforan culture was not an entirely wasted exercise in social stratification.

Ahh, yes, Beforus. I'm not even sure that was the planet's motherfucking name. Doc Scratch could have just as easily rewritten our memories as part of a joke. Truth be told, it is a whimsical jape of a moniker, and I approve. As my proudly plum-hued blood appointed me, I was intended to be a caretaker and law enforcer of the populace when I grew older. We were able to use our chucklevoodoos and most disarming whimsies to disarm violent situations, and reach peaceful resolutions. The fact that we would probably be given a ludicrous and insulting name like "Juggalonstable" or "Juggalofficer" or someshit would be the least of our dishonors. We would be forced to stop the violence instead of reveling in it, we would be forced to get on our knees and plead for a peaceful resolution rather than making the peasantbloods kneel. At least, that's what the blood tells me, when I let it. I still am a fervent believer in our Mirthful Messiahs, but I eagerly await to see just what the motherfuck their plan is. It's been millions and billions of sweeps and perigees, all biding my time and patiently workin' my way to that glorious mountain top. Practicioners of the faith would go to moonlit enclaves, and protected by the silence enforced by our chucklevoodoos, we Beforans would honk and bellow our hymns. We would crack open those most wicked elixirs, and eventually kick up the Special Stardust which other Beforans thought to be light shows put on in honor of the peace. 

I am still trying to get to that mountain top heralded in purpleblood lore, where the Mirthful Messiahs, the Angel of Double Death, shall lead the procession of ghouls and ghasts through the throngs of chucklefucks. There, we shall begin to kill, and maim, and delight in an orgy of fire, lightning, and many colors. Then, when we have stirred a bloody froth among the many peoples of Paradox Space, our grand and monstrous Minister of Hilarity shall rip open the skies, and leap from star to star. He will mete out the wicked word, and most uproariously educate us in the ways of making mischief; by his teachings, we shall kill, and maim, and bathe the universe in the rainbow of gore. The debris of entire worlds and stars will become the greatest Special Stardust, and we shall be most hellacious artists in the paint set of blood.

You see, it is very easy to talk up such things when you've only been at it for a few measly little years of life. When you've been trying to kick what you've been told was 'the most wicked ignorance' for years, and years, and millions of years, you start to doubt what it means to truly believe in what you place all of those aspirations in. You start to develop a deficit of belief and confidence, when you have no one to discuss scriptures and share rituals with. You go bankrupt as far as your pimp ryda faith is concerned. Sometimes, I wonder whether I had been on Beforus long enough before Sgrub started. Had I really learned the meaning of my faith? Were there final sermons I needed to get schoolfed on in order to truly reach my final understanding? Could it be, on the other hand, that I needed to search my soul in order to truly find the meaning of mirth that I apparently had inherited from ages long past?

I was never a devout like my ancestor was. He died like he lived - a wild card joker, giving praise straight to his Mirthful Messiahs until he went out with a smile. He knew all the scriptures, but it went beyond memorization of words off a page: he processed them, he meditated, he reflected on what those words meant. My ancestor, that glorious troll known as The Mirthful, was never in a shortage of faith and wisecracking wisdom. That did not make him any less of a mean, obscene killing machine on the battlefields. With his twin clubs, Comedy and Tragedy, he was said to become filled by all of the euphoria and the fury of his Mirthful Messiahs. He busted heads left and right, all while delivering rites and sermons from the oldest texts, to put his foes to mirthful rest. He died laughing like a motherfucker.

And then I look at motherfucking Gamzee Makara. Mother. Fucking. Gamzee. One assault on his faith and he goes off the god damn deep end. He begins blaspheming that he's both of the Mirthful Messiahs, one in the same, and in his crisis he needs a mutantblood to chill him the fuck out and screw his thinkpan back on straight. Perhaps my perception of the situation is tainted by Kankri, but anyone who depends on the moiraillegiance of anyone who can resemble him must be disappointing. Though, I have heard stories that Kankri's ancestor was quite something to behold...Still, the point is that Gamzee ranges from a first-rate devout to a third-rate altar boy. For the most part, he engages in jumbled preaching concerning things he can barely even conceive of yet. His Rage controls him, while Rage is my instrument. For him to depend on anyone else to keep his anger and distress under control, he has so very long to go before he can stand among the greatest practicioners of our faith.

Of course, I know the rewards of being able to appease and calm someone in need. I speak of course of Mituna Captor, my moirail (or as some would say, ward). What I saw on that fateful day was an encounter which I fail to describe. A conflict of faith bestruck me, and although I could not bring myself to come to Mituna's aid, it comforts me to know that perhaps my lack of interference saved his life. Though, I failed to save his quality of life, and his peace of mind. I see his frustration with failing to do simple tasks, and I feel I am uniquely responsible for trying to help him get the most out of what it is. When I periodically come across Kankri taking out his frustration over failures in relationships with Latula, and I use little subtle tricks to make life just a tad more miserable for that bitter little ass.

Sometimes, Meulin, Mituna and I will just relax together. Meulin and I can find comfort in the flushed phantoms of our old matespritship, even if we can never truly be the same was we were before that night. Mituna will allow me to help him out of his helmet, and I keep it in my lap whilst he rests his head in Meulin's. Then is one of those times where, far apart from any kinds of interruptions, Meulin and I break out the wicked weed. We pass the burning bush back and forth, both taking practiced drags of the miraculous herb. Merely remembering the high holy plant does not create an effect to do it justice, but somehow, Meulin has found a way to cultivate those noble seeds which were in her pockets when she died. So, when I've carefully bound the greens with room to breathe, I light up, and stick the joint in one corner of my mouth. I'm able to give a sigh of smoke out of the other side when I've gotten my fill of those rich vapors: shit like that takes practice, but it comes in handy when your mouth is sewn up tight.

When the fumes pass into my body, I feel a fantastic sensation. It's a buzzing kind of warmth, a feeling which courses from the tips of my hairs to the toes of my feet. My bones are jarred, my horns are jarred, and as my eyes roll slightly, both Meulin and I know we've hit upon one fine-ass batch. We both welcome the burning ache that hammers our heads; the worse it is, the better what's soon to come, I'm inclined to believe. Then, the reward washes over us in a relieving tide of pleasure. Meulin runs her hands down her sides, expertly manipulating the joint despite her most glorious stoning. Her activities make Mituna snicker a bit, and this in turn makes her giggle at herself.

I tap the joint against my thumb, discarding some tiny greenish cinders. I look at Mituna and Meulin, and a smile spreads across my stitched-up lips. Maybe there's more to faith and the Mirthful Messiahs than what I took at face value. I think that just maybe, my ancestor found something that Gamzee is getting close to. Maybe the real Mirthful Messiahs I am meant to find are right here, with the people I love, pity, and perhaps even hate.

Some of my best ideas have come to me high; why not an epiphany like this?


End file.
